The Maelstrom

  A cloud passed before the sun and the battalion’s splendid gleam died a slow, flickering death.

  “Well, that’s it,” sighed Tweedy. “We’ll be assigned to guard a pumpkin patch.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” replied Max. “This isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

  He gazed at the neighboring hill where Lucia and Cynthia were making final arrangements for the upcoming simulation. The Director had personally dictated the simulation’s parameters, and Max had no idea what they would be. Over the past week, he’d ratcheted up the intensity immensely—conditioning, weapons practice, and the execution of various maneuvers and formations. The formations ensured that the battalion’s firepower could be directed at critical targets and that its defenses—or even retreat—would not devolve into a mad scramble in the midst of battle. Without training and discipline, the Trench Rats would be no better than a mob.

  Fortunately, the battalion was not merely willing but eager to put in the additional work. They seemed to take a perverse delight in the fact that Max not only survived assassination, but also showed no trace of the attack. The more superstitious troops considered this a magnificent omen; their commander was apparently invulnerable and naturally they must be, too. When they also learned that YaYa would be joining their ranks and that Zenuvian iron had been procured for arrows and pike tips, confidence spiraled up to the stratosphere. Now, instead of naming their battalion with an apologetic shrug, many were sporting homespun patches with sinful pride. While no two were exactly alike and some of the “rats” were not readily recognizable as such, they still had the intended effect. A black rat—or blob—on an ivory background signaled that its wearer was a member of the Trench Rats. And this had become a very good thing.

  Fortune could be fickle, however. Max knew that if they failed this review, the Trench Rats’ station and spirits would sink very low indeed. It would be humiliating to be reassigned. If this occurred, the troops would no doubt find themselves inside the citadel, protecting a building in Old College or perhaps joining civilian patrols about Rowan Township. Necessary work, but the Director would undoubtedly put someone else in charge and redeploy the battalion’s prized and unique assets to more critical functions at the front.

  Something caught Max’s eye. A bannerman was waving his standard to signal that the commander could rejoin the group. YaYa descended the hill at a slow, heavy walk. It was an adjustment getting used to her; the ki-rin was far more massive than the biggest destriers and moved with an entirely different gait. And she was a truly ancient creature. Max would never have voiced his misgivings (her offer to serve him was a tremendous honor) but privately he worried if YaYa was really up to this task. Her body was powerful, but it was also arthritic. She grew tired easily and he had yet to urge her beyond the meager trot with which she covered the last fifty yards to where the Director was waiting.

  “So, Commander McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter amiably, “shall we see a few demonstrations?”

  Max nodded and wheeled the ki-rin around to face his troops. When he blew his horn, the entire company broke apart like the pieces of a machine, each company and platoon jogging to their assigned positions in the practice trench while the ballistae were wheeled into place behind them. They faced a broad field where numbered targets had been set up at various distances and intervals.

  “All archers,” said Ms. Richter. “Their nearest target.”

  The signal was relayed to the company commanders and lieutenants. Seconds later, six hundred bowstrings were drawn in unison and held until Sarah gave the command to fire. They did so in a single whistling volley that thudded into their targets with a truly satisfying sound. A few had missed, but the vast majority struck their mark.

  “Company two, target eleven,” said Ms. Richer calmly.

  Ajax relayed the order to his company and gave the command. Within ten seconds, arrows were nocked, bows raised high, and a volley arced toward a target some hundred yards away. About half hit their mark at such a distance: decent if not outstanding. One of Ms. Richter’s aides jotted down the result.

  “Company four is under attack by vyes,” said the Director. “They are to fire two arrows apiece as fast as they can. Starting … now.”

  The ensuing arrows flew with considerably less uniformity and precision than previous volleys. Max was less concerned with the speed than he was with target selection and accuracy. The Director was clearly probing to see if the archers knew the proper distances at which to fire at a charging vye. One had to take into account the creature’s speed, and conventional wisdom held that even an expert bowman would only be able to get off two shots on a closing vye before it was upon them. The optimal distances were at one hundred yards and twenty-five yards. Gazing out, Max exhaled as most fired at the proper targets. Some missed, some plunged into the wrong haystacks, but the general performance was respectable.

  For the next hour, the Trench Rats’ bows, ballistae, and pikemen were put through their paces. The results were mixed, but there had been no gross embarrassments.

  That could change in a heartbeat, thought Max, gazing uneasily out at the wood.

  “Very good,” said Ms. Richter. “Let’s see a live demonstration of an ogre charge with Company Three, Platoon Six.”

  Inwardly, Max groaned. The Director had chosen the worst pike unit in the entire battalion. He doubted this was an accident. Max could practically see the boy named Richard droop when the unit had been named. Swapping out their weapons for padded training pikes, the unit assumed a proper wedge and faced the woods.

  Bob emerged. Hefting his cudgel, the ogre wore a steel breastplate and a horned helm whose fearsome grating obscured his kindly face. He looked nothing like his typical self, and it was unnerving to see him standing there some hundred yards away. When the ogre broke into a trot and then an all-out clanking sprint, it was downright terrifying.

  As Bob charged, Max watched the soldiers closely. Thus far they were maintaining a tight formation and digging in their heels. A few pikes were trembling, but no one simply threw down their weapon and fled as had happened on several occasions. Everything depended on timing, on the unit’s ability to stand firm and deliver a single, concentrated blow. Should they fail, they would not have another opportunity. If an ogre managed to invade a trench, all nearby could expect a sudden and savage death. Each group of pikemen had to hold their ground; a single weak link could mean ruin.

  The earth shook. Lowering his head and giving a hoarse roar, Bob crashed into the formation at full speed. The impact was tremendous. One of the pikes shattered outright and its owner was thrown back. But the rest held, striking Bob’s breastplate as one and jolting him upright so that he staggered backward and toppled onto his behind. The pikemen were ecstatic, flinging their weapons into the air and rushing to help Bob up. Climbing wearily to his feet, the ogre removed his helmet and caught his breath.

  “I think you must pass them, Director,” he croaked, wiping sweat from his knobby forehead. “Bob not do that again.…”

  An hour later, Max was feeling almost giddy as he strode down the dormitory hallway toward his room. The corridor was fairly crowded with Fifth and Sixth Year boys, leaning against the walls in their academic robes and chatting before they would all head down to supper. Max nodded hello as he swept by, highly conscious of his ring but oblivious to the mud he was tracking with each long stride.

  Max stopped, however, when he saw Omar Mustaf. The boy was technically Tweedy’s steward, which Tweedy interpreted to mean that he had been granted legal authority to function as Omar’s official guardian, tutor, and scold. While other students were off playing with their charges in the Sanctuary, Omar was forced to endure Tweedy’s heavily advertised, sparsely attended lectures on everything from Greek architecture to the exhaustive works of David Hume. Omar had not merely approved Max’s request to speak with his charge about serving as aide-de-camp; he had given his enthusiastic blessing.

  “How did it go?” inquired
Omar cautiously.

  Laughing with pleasure, Max lifted the boy three feet off the ground.

  “We passed!” he exclaimed, spinning Omar about. “The Director has ‘every confidence’ that we’re the group to hold Trench Nineteen. Tweedy’s brilliant!”

  “He’ll be the first to tell you,” said Omar, grinning as Max set him down. “But I’m glad—Tweedy’s been such a nervous wreck.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” said Max, regaining his senses. “Bob’s whipping up a late supper for the officers up at Crofter’s Hill. Tweedy will be there. You should come!”

  “I’d like that,” said Omar, “but I’ve got to wolf something down and get back to my own unit. We’re doing night exercises beyond Southgate.”

  Max glanced at Omar’s magechain and blinked at the brilliant aquamarine at its center.

  “A full-fledged aeromancer!” he exclaimed. “Look at you!”

  Reddening, Omar gazed down at the glittering stone. He downplayed its significance, joking about “battlefield promotions” and the recent spate of advancements, but he nevertheless looked pleased. Very few Fifth Years could claim official Agent or Mystic status, and the honor was far greater than the ever-humble Omar would admit. With a promise to stop by Bob’s if he could, Omar departed and Max entered his room.

  To his surprise, David was home. His roommate was occupying one of the armchairs on the lower level, scratching at his severed stump and staring at the fire. He glanced up as Max descended the stairs, muttered something about “muddy boots,” and returned to his thoughts.

  “We passed!” Max crowed, padding back down in his stocking feet.

  “I heard,” David groused. “I’d imagine everyone in the dormitory heard. So the troops have ‘won’ the right to occupy a muddy trench in harm’s way. An odd thing to celebrate, but I guess people will jump at anything so long as they’re convinced it’s prestigious.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” said Max, plopping down in the opposite chair.

  Slumping back, David gazed wearily up at the stars beyond the Observatory’s glass.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “That was rude. Truly, I’m sorry … I’m just tired and more than a little frustrated.”

  “What’s bugging you?”

  “Oh, just that thing,” he sighed, gesturing absently beneath Max’s chair.

  Leaning forward, Max spied a pair of large, undulating antennae between his feet.

  The ensuing shriek—both its pitch and volume—were unprecedented, as was Max’s Amplified leap to the upper level. Clinging to the railing, Max shouted furiously at his roommate while the pinlegs scuttled out from beneath the toppled chair and meandered about in a state of apparent confusion.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?”

  “I’m sorry,” yelled David, also in a state of apparent confusion. “I forgot!”

  “What’s it even doing in our room?”

  “I needed a break from the Archives!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?” Max roared again, his rage and revulsion coming full circle.

  Pleading with his friend to come back down, David righted the chair and picked up the pinlegs to demonstrate that there was really nothing to fear as the creature was on a docile setting. This did not have the desired effect, as the pinlegs flailed its many limbs about while clicking its maxillae and issuing a high-pitched chittering. Max groaned and clutched the railing tightly.

  But reason—or at least a willingness to conquer rational terror—prevailed and Max crept back down the stairs. By now, David had released the pinlegs, which promptly moved away to settle on the fireplace mantel like some glistening Jurassic horror. Even as Max inched forward, he saw that the chitinous plates along its back were covered in faint, glowing pentacles.

  “Why did those appear?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Heat illuminates them and the hearth is warm,” replied David, settling back into his seat. “Nothing to worry about. Again, I’m very sorry I didn’t say anything.”

  “Neither did Ghöllah,” muttered Max, glaring at his ring and easing back down.

  “Remember that this is just a prototype,” said David. “There is no demon—or any part of a demon—inside. It hasn’t been paired with a dreadnought.”

  “What the heck is a dreadnought?”

  “That’s what Varga calls the creatures that the pinlegs summon. He’s had glimpses of them in his visions … says they’re bigger than Old Tom. I’d love to speak with someone who’s seen one in person, but we can’t find any. Nobody who has seen a dreadnought summoned has survived to tell about it.”

  “What about that Workshop engineer we kidnapped?” asked Max. “He must know something.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” replied David. “The Workshop partitioned the project so that only one or two people have detailed knowledge about all the components. Dr. Bechel only worked on the pinlegs. He knows very little about the dreadnoughts or the process by which the Workshop splits an imp’s spirit in two.…”

  Unscrewing a nearby coffee thermos, David sniffed at its contents, sighed, and set it back down.

  “Honestly, Max, I’ve never been so frustrated. I feel like I’ve been handed a big jumble of knots to unravel, and every time I manage one, I find that three more have appeared. The Director, Ms. Kraken … everyone’s counting on me to solve this, but I just don’t know. I’ve hit a dead end.”

  “Impossible,” said Max, trying to cheer him up. “You’re a genius!”

  “Charitable,” said David. “Even if that’s true, I’m not alone. The Workshop has more than its fair share. For example, I have tried everything I can think of to confuse this pinlegs’ settings—block incoming signals, manipulate outgoing signals.…” He trailed off, looking utterly worn and dejected. “Miss Boon is beside herself. Varga too. Dr. Bechel says that they incorporated a slew of poison pills to guard against tampering.”

  “What’s a poison pill?”

  “A clever defense tactic,” replied David wearily. “Every time we try to crack the pinlegs’ symbolic code, that code becomes twice as complicated to break. We’re now at a point where it could literally take millions of years to run through the current permutations and we’d only be digging ourselves a deeper hole.

  I’m ready to scream. We’re all so close to the problem that we’re not even thinking clearly anymore. I came up here to get away from the Archives, sit by the fire, and clear my head. I’m tired of staring at runeglass.”

  “How’s Miss Boon doing?” asked Max delicately.

  “Better now that it looks like Grendel’s going to make it, but I’m not certain anyone took the attack on you harder than she did. Ms. Richter has absolutely forbidden her to go searching for Cooper. Miss Boon’s been trying to help with the pinlegs, but it’s hard for her to focus. Any sign of Cooper?”

  “No,” said Max. “Umbra goes out searching every night, but no luck.”

  “Umbra goes out searching,” David repeated with peculiar emphasis.

  Max had not yet told David of Umbra’s true identity. He’d only seen his roommate once since the attack in the tent. There had been so much happening that Max hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with his friend in private. And thus he wondered at the wry twinkle in David’s pale, almost colorless eyes.

  “What do you know?” asked Max, shifting uneasily in his seat.

  “Well,” said David, betraying a ghost of a smile, “I don’t know anything for certain. I can only say that Max McDaniels has been trying very hard to compose some poetry and has been struggling to come up with anything to rhyme with Scathach. He does seem to have the ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ part down pretty well. It’s appeared in every draft.”

  Max turned fire red. “I was just using that to get the ideas flowing,” he snapped, before turning about to find that his waste-basket had been moved. “Did you go through my garbage?”

  David looked sheepish. “I did,” he
admitted. “I didn’t mean to, but the pinlegs knocked it over and all these papers spilled out. I was cleaning them up when I glimpsed a few lines. I knew it was wrong to read them, but …” He winced. “Not my proudest moment.”

  Digesting this, Max settled slowly back in his chair. “Oh, it’s all right,” he sighed. “I’ve snooped in your stuff plenty of times. I guess the real question is whether you think there’s anything I can use?”

  “I’d say you’re building a strong foundation for future success,” replied David diplomatically. “Anyway, tell me about Scathach.”

  Max did so, unable to keep the grin off his face. “It’s hard to concentrate when I’m around her,” he confessed. “But it’s even harder to pretend she’s Umbra in front of everyone else.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy,” David reflected. “Perhaps love does conquer all—or at least fear of the Atropos and the threat of invasion. I always suspected there was something between you two.”

  “Please,” Max scoffed. “I hardly ever talked about her.”

  “Exactly,” said David with a knowing grin. “Anyway, I look forward to meeting her. I only got a distant glimpse of her at Rodrubân. Is she the reason behind the Trench Rats’ recent success?”

  “One of them,” said Max. “But lots of people have made the difference.”

  “And how are the Mystics in your battalion?” inquired David, casually examining his fingernails. “I’d imagine they must have done some good things.”

  “Lucia and Cynthia have been fantastic. During tonight’s simulation, Lucia created an entire troop of deathknights that were so realistic you’d have sworn we were hiding back in the woods near Broadbrim Mountain. Amazing detail!”

  “Hmmm,” said David, frowning. “Lucia’s got undeniable talent, but I find her magic—ooh—a little temperamental. Cynthia’s work might be a little less flashy, but every outcome is rock solid and reliable. Utterly dependable in a pinch. There’s real bottom there.”

  Max gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ll take your word.”